The Ups and Downs of Being Dead (7 page)

There sat Martin, at the bar. Big Surprise. Amanda had no
doubt set up a meeting to find out if she was going to be filthy rich, or just
independently wealthy. She let those hips do the talking as she swaggered
toward Martin.

He swung off his barstool looking quite dapper. When had he
stopped buying his suits off the rack? And were those Italian shoes? Martin was
definitely the anal-type—too preoccupied with business to be bothered with
personal appearance. For years, Robert swore Martin’s closet was filled with
identical blue suits, white shirts and striped ties.

As Martin ushered Amanda through the restaurant, his hand
settled on the small of her back. Did she find the contact as revolting as when
Robert touched her? She probably wanted to slap Martin for his insolence, but
fought the urge—at least until she found out what sort of loopholes he’d found
in Robert’s Trust.

Martin held her chair, telling her how lovely she looked.
She tilted her head back and graced him with a smile.

“Don’t fawn over the woman,” Robert muttered. “Can’t you see
how she’s playing you?”

The smile on Martin’s face twitched a bit at the edges, like
the plaster he’d used was about to crumble. He must have made arrangements
earlier, because a cocktail waitress magically appeared with a fresh cocktail
for Martin and a glass of wine for Amanda. Good thinking. Did Martin have some
small talk rehearsed while he waited for Amanda to get some wine in her? It was
going to take more than a little merlot to get her through this.

The color in Martin’s cheeks had faded to a pasty white as
he slumped into the chair opposite Amanda. Slowly, he wrapped the fingers of
both hands around his glass in supplication.

Reaching across the table, Amanda touched a palm to his
white knuckles. “Looks like the meeting with Jackson Burke didn’t go too well.”

Oh, yes. Robert had done the right thing, turning over his
final arrangements to Jackson Burke. If he’d let Martin handle the trust,
Amanda would have somehow cajoled him into getting the terms changed to her
advantage. He’d seen her do it plenty of times when Robbie needed bailing out.

The only question was how: the helpless damsel in distress,
the ball-busting wench routine, or had she thrown caution to the wind and used
the sexy vixen approach? Dear God, had she gone so far as to sleep with Martin?

Amanda pried his fingers off the cocktail glass. “Martin?”

Oh, boy. Was she going to toss Martin’s cocktail in his
face? Very dramatic. That would probably get her a mention in Peach Buzz, the
celebrity column in the Atlanta newspaper.

“The man’s good, Mandy.”

Mandy?

“He’s a genius.” Martin squeezed her hand. “And we’re
screwed.”

He let the finality of his statement hang for a second
before he continued. “Our intention was to contest the validity of the trust.
Claim that there was no proof that Robert would ever return, or that he was of
unsound mind at the time he had the trust drawn up. But Jackson Burke has a
video Robert taped, and he looks pretty damn sound. He also slipped in a
no-contest clause to the original document, and as far as I can research, it’s
good.”

“What does that mean?” Trying to feign calm, Amanda sipped
at her wine.

Martin gazed right into her eyes. Good God, how many drinks
had the man had that he was willing to face her down? Right now, his balls
should be receding in protective mode; he should be scoping out the nearest
exit.

Once Amanda set her glass back down, Martin continued. “If a
judge agreed that there was no ascertainable beneficiary—no Robert anymore—or
that Robert was indeed incapable of making decisions, the judge would find
probable cause and nullify the trust. But if someone contests, and the judge
does not agree, according to the no-contest clause, the beneficiary who
challenges is disinherited.”

Amanda didn’t understand all that legal mumbo-jumbo, but she
sure picked up on the magic word: disinherited.

Her voice cawed, “What?”

Martin fanned her with his hands, trying to keep her from
coming out of her seat. “I’m sure they put that in there for Robbie. Sort of an
all or none clause. You can challenge, but if you’re unsuccessful, you’re
out—with nothing. Being disinherited can be a powerful psychological
deterrent.” Martin took a long pull on his own cocktail, no doubt savoring the
flavor before he sprinted for the door. “Like I said, the guy is brilliant.”

Robert took a bow, even though Martin was probably referring
to Jackson Burke.

Now it was Amanda’s turn to gulp her drink. Bet she wished
she had something stronger. She’d probably like to blame the scene she was
about to cause on drunkenness.

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” she sighed. “This is so
like Robert. I wonder if the whole point was the hope that I would challenge.
If the media got a hold of the news, I’d be branded as a heartless gold-digger
like Anna Nicole. Or that bitch who scammed Paul McCartney.”

“Robert’s not that smart.”

Hey!

“Are you kidding?” Amanda said. “Remember when I asked him
to drop his damned exclusive clause in my contract? Do you have any idea what I
might have earned in endorsements? But he couldn’t stand the idea that I might
make more than he paid.”

“Well, there isn’t anything in the trust about that. Maybe
you still could.”

“What am I going to endorse now? Hormone replacement
therapy? Depends?”

“Come on, Amanda. You’re still a beautiful, vibrant woman.”
Martin reached under the table.

What the hell? Robert slipped his head through the
tablecloth. His attorney had his hand on his wife’s thigh; and she was letting
him!

“Look at all the cosmetic companies with their rejuvenating
facial creams. Or weight loss programs.”

Under the table, she laid her hand on top of his. It was
about time the true Amanda showed herself. Robert watched to see her manicured
claws dig into Martin’s knuckles until he dragged his paw off her body. But she
guided his hand farther between her thighs and squeezed!

“You think someone will pay for a testimonial about how,
with the right man, a woman can do anything. Even lose a hundred and thirty
seven pounds?” She giggled.

Martin gave her a big smile. “We could show before and after
pictures of both of us. You in a moo-moo and me in a dorky wool blend suit.”

Just like that, she reached across the small table and
grabbed Martin’s tie. She literally pulled him out of his seat, rising up from
her own chair as well, and planted a deep lingering kiss on his mouth.

Queasiness washed over Robert that he hadn’t felt since
those first moments after his death. His chest felt tight, and a high-pitched
squelch rang in his ears.

He’d never seen it at home growing up, but he’d watched
enough movies, he’d heard enough songs to know what he was seeing. Love.

He ran. Through the cut-glass doors of Harrison’s, across
the parking lot, and up Peachtree Street; running as hard as he could to get
away from what he’d witnessed. Questions tumbled over each other: How? When?
And the most painful of all:
Why Martin
and not me
?

Exhaust-belching trucks and careening cars flowed beneath
Robert like a polluted river. He stood on an overpass of the northern section
of the beltway, miles from Buckhead. The setting sun perched just above
Marietta to the west. Had he run all this way? He didn’t feel the least bit
winded. Only defeated.

After debating the possibility of finding a cab this far
from the city, he began aimlessly walking. He killed hours at a sleazy strip
club featuring girls with too much belly fat and sagging breasts. All of the
strippers came out for the finale, strutting and squeezing to Donna Summer’s ‘Last
Dance’. More like last chance for the remaining drunks to slip dollar bills
into panties, while fumbling fingers drifted clumsily toward restricted areas
and got slapped playfully away.

Then it was on to the Waffle House on Piedmont where drunks
hung out after the bars closed down, combating the booze with scrambled eggs
and raisin toast.

It was still dark when Robert ended up back at his home in
Buckhead, but the birds were tweeting restlessly in the trees, so dawn was
near.

Even though he knew what he would find, Robert tortured
himself by climbing the spiral staircase to the master bedroom.

Amanda lay nestled in Martin’s arms, her lips just inches
from his neck. Robert wedged himself between them, wanting to feel her soft,
warm breath against his own skin. He couldn’t.

Thinking back through nearly 30 years of marriage, he
searched for clues to when their affair might have started. Certainly not in
those early days. Life was too hectic and they were on crazy schedules.

He remembered one night that first spring when they were all
flying red-eyes back to Atlanta. Martin had been in Des Moines closing a deal
on a 25-thousand square-foot property. After spending two weeks in Springfield,
Robert was coming home for the weekend. And Amanda had been fighting wind and
rain in Savannah for two days on a photo shoot.

Robert and Martin met in a bar on concourse D at the airport
and waited for Amanda’s flight.

“It’s amazing,” Robert was telling Martin. “Women
love
having a man in the store. She
tries on a dress and I tell her to turn around so I can get the full effect. Or
she likes a skirt but she thinks maybe the blouse is too plain. So I grab a
scarf and drape it around her neck. That personal attention means everything.”

Martin sipped scotch, his bleary eyes unfocused. “And what
do you say if she asks you if the dress makes her look fat?”

“Oh, I tell her the truth. But in a good way.
Like—‘sweetheart, your husband might not want you struttin’ your stuff for all
the other men out there’. They don’t take it so personally when it comes from
me. I’m like their physician.”

“Doctor Feelgood,” Martin mumbled and downed the rest of his
drink. “I’m dead on my feet. How much longer do we have to wait—”

At that moment, Amanda burst into the bar like a typhoon and
paused before letting a magazine, the hefty Best of Vogue issue slip from her
hands. The slap on the floor drew attention from all the other weary travelers
in the room—mostly men.

Newspapers rustled, chairs creaked, conversations stopped.

Then she slowly eased down in a squat, allowing her short
skirt to ride up her thighs. Flipping her hair to one side to increase
visibility, she squeezed her elbows to her chest to thrust out her breasts, and
scooped up the magazine.

Robert loved the show—God knows he’d seen it a hundred
times—but Martin huffed in disdain.

At the table, she bent to offer air kisses to Robert, one
stiletto heel rising behind her in a coquettish pose. Robert took advantage of
her public display to rub a hand down to her ass and squeeze. She never
rejected his overtures if she had an audience.

Martin however, refused to stand and offer his cheek.
Instead, he rifled the papers on their cocktail table like she was late for an
important meeting.

Once she was sure the barometric pressure had stabilized in
the room, she took a seat.

“My God, the humidity was brutal in Savannah,” she said
breathlessly.

She even fanned her cowled silk blouse, then fluffed her
professionally-tangled hair with polished nails.

“We sat in the trailer all morning playing cards,” she said,
“waiting for a break in the rain.” She inhaled a deep breath, her breasts
rising to peaks. Then she blew out with dramatic flair, her head wobbling in
that ‘what’s a girl to do’ shake.

“Then it looked like it was starting to clear so we raced
out to the beach. You can imagine how hot it got the moment the sun came out,
but Dominick started shooting like crazy. Five minutes later, it was pouring
rain again. My hair was a wreck, the dress was toast. And we were back in the
trailer in our robes, playing cards again.”

When it was apparent that Amanda would be rehashing her day
for a while, Martin stood.

“Perhaps we can continue this in the car?”

As they strolled to baggage claim, she jabbered about how
the sunlight had played perfectly off her hair. And while they waited for her
bags, she chattered about the perfect sunset, and how she was sure Dominick had
captured her essence.

Martin went ahead to look for the driver, and he was sitting
in the front seat when Robert and Amanda climbed into the back of the town car.

By then, Amanda had worked herself into such an aroused
state that she pulled Robert on top of her and drove her tongue deep into his
mouth. He’d sat motionless, anticipating how far Amanda might take things. If
he reciprocated in any way, she’d stop. Almost like his touch was the catalyst
that turned her off.

Unfortunately, Martin growled to clear his throat, and
turned in his seat to address them both.

“I’m heading to Memphis tomorrow night for a meeting with
Charles Henderson at McNamara’s.” He rustled a sheaf of papers when Amanda
continued to nibble on Robert’s ear. “Amanda, you have an appearance at the
Springfield Audrey’s Friday, and then you join Robert in Anderson for the
ribbon-cutting ceremony on number twenty-five.”

Her lips parted in a wicked smile as her hand slid between
Robert’s legs; her eyebrow twitched in a taunt. Then, the moment Martin got out
of the town car at his apartment, her performance stopped. Had she been teasing
Martin as much as Robert, even then?

No, in those days, she had no interest in Martin. She might
not have actually been in love with Robert, but she loved what he could do for
her, and she showed her appreciation.

His mind roamed again, like scanning for a clear channel,
and another more recent episode came to mind. He’d come home late from a
business trip to find Amanda crying in their bedroom, a scrapbook on her lap.